


As A Distraction

by asexualshepard



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flirting, Kissing, Kissing as a Distraction, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualshepard/pseuds/asexualshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Y’know, I’m gonna have to kneel to pick this lock,” he says, bending the bobby pin so the two halves are at a ninety-degree angle.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“That’s generally how lock-picking works, right?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“What’s our cover if someone comes wandering past and I’m on my knees in front of you?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	As A Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).



> This fic was written as a part of an OC Kiss Week, and I had so, so much fun with it. Rook is a delight, and I hope I did him as much justice as his owner assures me I did. 
> 
> On that note, a huge thank you to Dog for sharing Rook and allowing me to use him. <3

Even in the hustle and bustle of Diamond City—in the noise and the crowds and the constant activity—Ethan sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s too clean, eyes too wide, and the fact that he stands a head above most people doesn’t help. And then there’s his combat armor, worn like a second skin, and the shotgun slung across his back, the pistol at his hip. Residents don’t carry weapons, don’t need to. Every inch of Ethan stands out.

But then there’s Rook—only a few inches closer to the ground, just as dirty, the same arsenal strapped to his lanky frame—who becomes a fly on the wall. Ethan marvels every time it happens. One second Rook will be walking next to him and the next he’ll be gone, only to return a moment later as if he hadn’t even vanished in the first place. And, whenever Ethan asks him just how he does it, Rook simply shrugs and moves whatever type of candy he has in his mouth to the opposite cheek.

But, damn, Ethan wants to be able to do that. With how much sneaking around they end up doing, he figures the skill would be useful. So he watches, keeps a close eye on Rook whenever they stop in a highly populated area, and tries to catch on.

And this is how he ends up creeping through the alleyways of Diamond City in jeans and a flannel, his combat armor carefully removed and hidden in his rented room at the Dugout Inn. He feels odd—naked, almost—but slipping through small spaces is easier and he’s lighter on his feet and he manages to stay closer to Rook than he has in the past. The lack of a hard, thick plate of metal between his heart and any weapon that may desire to find itself between his ribs is a bit disconcerting, though.

“How do you do this?” he asks, tugging at the leather strap across his chest, adjusting it so it stops digging into his collar bone.

Rook adjusts the stick of the lollipop between his teeth with a smile. “Do what?”

“The whole—” Ethan growls in frustration, moving the strap further down his shoulder. “The whole ‘no armor, travel light’ thing.”

Rook bounces on his toes. “How do _you_ walk around wrapped in tinfoil all the time?”

“Oh, c’mon, cut the shit.” Ethan stops fiddling with the strap and focuses his attention on Rook’s features. “You never feel like someone’s gonna stab you?”

“Not usually, no.”

Ethan sighs and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, fingering a cool cylinder of metal at the bottom, pressing his thumb along the holes in one end. He’s tempted to pull it out and give it one last check before he actually tries to use it, but he figures that’s a bad idea. Shouldn’t reveal the master plan before it goes into action. That never works out.

“You should stop moving your fingers around in your pocket.”

Ethan’s gaze falls to Rook’s face once more, taking note of the smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

“You look like you’re doin’ something you shouldn’t be.”

“That so?” Ethan asks as he leans into Rook’s shoulder with a grin. “You’re being a little cryptic here. What’s the something?”

“You know what the something is.”

“Yeah, I do,” he chirps. “But I wanna hear you say it.”

Rook smiles—large and wide—and a pointy tooth pokes out and presses into his bottom lip. “Remind me later, Tiny. We’re here.”

And they are. A long wall stretches beside them, doors interspersed, one of them closer than the rest. Ethan isn’t completely sure what’s inside. He has a general idea—most of the things he does for the Railroad have the same general concept of get in, grab something, get out—but exactly what he and Rook will find on the other side of the door is unknown.

“You got your little thing?” Rook asks, pulling the stick of the lollipop out of his mouth—now devoid of candy—and holding his hand up to gesture about three inches of length with his thumb and forefinger.

Ethan snorts. “Should’ve expected you to phrase it like that,” he mumbles as he carefully pulls the cylinder from his pocket. He takes a deep breath and glances around, eyes catching on shadows before finding Rook’s face once more. “Ready?”

Rook hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and leans back on the door. “I should be askin’ you that, shouldn’t I?”

“Don’t think it matters who asks.”

“Fair enough.”

And with that, Ethan steps forward and rolls the metal cylinder in his hand a few times, throwing a silent prayer to any god that will listen. He slots the holes on the end against the lock. Another breath before he wets his lips, then he presses the small, discreet button on the side.

And then… nothing. He presses the button again, and again, and a tinge of panic is rising in his throat, but still nothing happens. The familiar vibrations and clicks that ticked against his palm during his test runs never come.

“So?”

“It’s, um—It’s not working.”

“It’s not—” Rook’s voice breaks away for the barest of moments, and then a long leg is hooked around the back of Ethan’s knee, one of Rook’s hands curling around the cylinder with Ethan’s and the other winding in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. “Quick, kiss me.”

“What—” Whatever else Ethan was going to say is swallowed, a few of the words bouncing back into his mouth and the rest into Rook’s.

Ethan’s pictured a lot of things during his time in the Wasteland—his house the way it was before the bombs, dancing with Nora, finding Shaun, and, more than a few times, kissing Rook. He knows it’s kind of a ridiculous thing to think about, but there have been moments, small ones where eyes connect through laughter, and there’s _something_. What, he’s not sure, but it tugs at his stomach.

Actually kissing Rook, on the other hand, is a little overwhelming. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s Rook he’s kissing or if it’s because it’s been so long since he had any sort of physical contact beyond the passing of caps, ammo, or weapons. Either way, his heart jumps into his throat, he leans closer, his free hand rising to allow wide fingers to tangle in the looser hair at the back of Rook’s head, just above the knot the rest of it is tied up into. And Ethan feels, or _thinks_ he feels, a lot of things. He _thinks_ he feels the fingers in his shirt tighten. He _thinks_ he feels a pointy tooth drag over the tip of his tongue. Whether or not these things actually happen is beyond him—his head is too light and his stomach is in a knot and he can’t think straight. But then it’s over, and Rook is mumbling against his lips.

“All clear, partner.”

As much as Ethan wants to kiss him again, he doesn’t. Instead, he untangles his hand from Rook’s hair, careful not to let his wedding ring snag in the ginger locks, and takes a step back. His heart is still beating loudly against his tongue, his lips are wet, but he takes a deep breath once more, and tries to be professional.

“That was—ah—quick thinking,” he mutters. “You, um…” He pauses to clear his throat, to try and reign in the hopefulness that he knows will manage to sneak back in.  “You do that a lot? As a distraction, I mean.”

Rook reaches into one of the many pouches at his hips and pulls out another lollipop, beginning the process of carefully removing the wrapping from the outside. “Only when duty calls for it, really. But never let Deacon and I work a job together.”

Ethan bites his lip, ignoring the small amount of disappointment creeping along his tonsils. “Why not?”

The lollipop is pressed passed Rook’s lips—an action Ethan watches with far too much interest—and he smiles around the stick. “We’re, uh… competitive.”

Too much imagery, all at once. Ethan swallows around it and shoves the cylinder back into his pocket, fingers squeezing around the metal once before his hand reemerges.

“Got a bobby pin?”

Rook nods and reaches up to pull one from his hair. His fingers brush against Ethan’s palm as he passes it over, and Ethan has to remind himself that they’re working, and that now isn’t the time. Still, as he pulls his screwdriver from his boot, he can’t resist torturing himself further.

“Y’know, I’m gonna have to kneel to pick this lock,” he says, bending the bobby pin so the two halves are at a ninety-degree angle.

“That’s generally how lock-picking works, right?”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

“What’s our cover if someone comes wandering past and I’m on my knees in front of you?”

The snort of muffled laughter that slips passed the lollipop and out from between Rook’s lips makes Ethan’s fingers twitch, blood rise into his cheeks. In an attempt to escape his own idiocy, he fixes his eyes on the doorknob and removes himself from Rook’s space as much as he’s able before kneeling. Rook pulls the lollipop from his mouth, allowing his laughter to trickle out in a less muted manner, and kicks his foot against Ethan’s.

“You that desperate to find out, cowboy?” he asks. “Surely you’ve got better prospects than my flat ass.”

Ethan’s fingers slip as he starts the slow process of manually picking the lock. Rook is teasing. Ethan _knows_ he’s teasing. But he can’t help but feel like, if a few layers were stripped back, there’d be some sincerity beneath the jokes, hiding behind Rook’s teeth.

“Even if your ass is flat, your shoulders more than make up for it.”

The statement feels natural, easy, and it takes Ethan a moment to realize that he’s said something stupid again—that’s he’s kicking himself further and further into the damn pit. When Rook doesn’t respond, he allows himself to think that—perhaps—Rook hadn’t even heard him, that his words had gone unnoticed.

His fingers set back to the task at hand, and he focuses as much of his attention on it as he can. “But, ah, really. What do we do?”

“Just say you lost a contact lens.”

“You’re kidding, right? No way in Hell that works.”

“You’re missing a step, Tiny. See, you say you’re looking for a contact, the schmuck comes over to put a gun against your head, and I break his kneecaps from behind.”

Ethan snorts, the heat beginning to fade from his cheeks as the conversation returns to a familiar, easier place. “How, exactly, do you break someone’s kneecaps from behind, _Charmer_?”

“It’s a lot more complicated than sucking cock, I’ll give you that.”

The snap as the bobby pin breaks in Ethan’s fingers seems to echo. His blood can’t seem to decide which direction it wants to go, and his cheeks heat once more, his pulse beats strongly in his wrists, his ankles. He swallows around the lump in his throat and twists to look up at Rook. His smile looks different from this angle, the tooth poking at his bottom lip a bit more obvious. Nevertheless, it’s the same smile, familiar in shape and intensity. But something feels off. Something _flickers_ behind his irises. And that damn hopefulness—subtle and irritating—returns to Ethan’s stomach.

“Got another one for me?” he breathes, holding out his hand.

A bobby pin is pressed into his palm, fingertips with it, and Ethan’s throat closes up as he turns to the doorknob once more. It takes him a second to get the pin bent to the correct angle, but then he glances over his shoulder and sets to work on the lock once more. Hitting all of the pins in the correct way takes longer than it should due to the sweat building on his palms, but he gets it eventually, and he shoves his screwdriver back into his boot with a heavy sigh.

“Okay,” he huffs with a nod of his head, standing to set himself once more looking down at Rook. “Alright. Done.”

“You don’t say.”

Ethan snorts and flashes Rook a nervous smile as he pulls his shotgun from his back. “No thank you for my expert lock-picking skills?”

“Did you think that kiss was just a distraction?”

Ethan almost drops his shotgun, and the oxygen is punched out of his lungs. “I, um, well I—”

But then Rook laughs. “Nah, I’m just yankin’ your chain. Thanks, pal.” He reaches out to drop a heavy pat on Ethan’s shoulder, and then turns to slowly, carefully twist the doorknob.

Behind him, Ethan swallows and shifts his grip on his gun.  “No problem.”

Rook finds his laser musket and pushes the door open, and Ethan watches with his heart in his throat, a deep breath hanging on his lips. When Rook steps into the hostile territory that Ethan knows is on the other side of the door with a roll of his shoulders—those goddamn shoulders—he purses his lips and puffs his cheeks and tries to ignore the feeling swelling in his gut.

“No fucking problem.”

 

 

 

****


End file.
